


The Last Light of the Star

by entishramblings



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom, The Hobbit, Tolkien - Fandom, lotr - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Death, Depression, Elves, F/M, Fanfiction, Fighting, Fluff, LOTR, Lord of the Rings, Mirkwood, Mirkwood Elves - Freeform, SPICINESS, Self Harm, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Romance, The Hobbit - Freeform, Violence, Voilence, cute moments, lotr fanfiction, no smut but things get sPiCy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27867517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entishramblings/pseuds/entishramblings
Summary: Arryin is a descendant from an ancient elven race, the Núr -o Gilgalad (People of starlight). She has suffered great lost, her entire village was burned to ashes and she has been on the run for 984 years…just to stay safe and keep her secret hidden. What happens when Arryin’s past catches up to her and she meets a certain blonde elf?I promise it is better than the descriptionAlso posted on my wattpad and linked on my tumblr: entishramblings
Relationships: Legolas x OC!Arryin, Legolas x oc, Legolas/OC, legolas x arryin
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Everyone so this is, obviously, a Legolas x OC fanfiction. It is also posted on my wattpad account. I know AO3 is more accessible to everyone as you do not necessarily have to make an account hence why I am posting it on here. Currently I am going chapter by chapter editing; the completed, unedited version is posted on my wattpad account. The beginning chapters are shorter, they get longer as the story goes on.
> 
> *all elvish was looked up online from numerous sources so please dont hate if it is not entirely correct*

**The Last Light of the Star**

Ageless like the stars of the Núr -o Gilgalad,

The long forgotten one with intense fire in her eyes,

Forced to walk the earth in sorrow far from her haro.

Long before the haze, the darker shadows grow,

All the world she shall roam turning her heart into stone.

The Last Light of the Star shall answer the call,

And climb from the tortured and tormented fall,

There she shall abandon all ambitions and put rest her mission,

Returning to the endured agony and to the state of suffering.

There's no surrender there's no escape.

She shall claim the dark lives of all.

Too much for her soul to walk alone,

There in the ashes, she will rise or be buried.

...........

The spiders that resided in the Mirkwood forests have always generated an unsettling feeling for the elves. The fear of being wrapped up in slimy, sticky webs and eaten until nothing was left behind but bones was utterly petrifying. _Death_. It was death that was so terrifying—especially to immortal beings. Therefore, when the giant eight legged creatures became restless and more bodies were being found, the elves' patrols increased and spread to cover more ground.

"Prince Legolas!" A returning scout and valued member of the 13th sector of the Mirkwood Guard called out, "You must see this."

The Prince of Mirkwood, leader of the sector, frowned and raised his hand in a closed fist—signaling to the seventeen elves riding their steeds behind him to halt. With his bow and twin silver daggers on his back, he followed the amber haired elf—Rowan—along with three other members of the guard. The small group went ahead into the aftermath of what could only be described as a blood bath.

The clearing was covered in black and red liquid that pooled into deep puddles of desperation. Orc bodies contorted, burned, and ripped apart littered the ground, staining the forest floor with death. Elven weapons—long silver daggers, arrows, throwing stars, knives, and a bow—were scattered across the battlefield. But that was not the worst of it. The focal point of the gory scene was an elven body tied upon a tree. The hands were bound above the head, ropes wrapped around the waist and feet, and blood dripping from many contusions and cuts. Whatever armor had been worn was torn off and wrenched apart, leaving the being clad in a diminutive amount of slashed up fabric.

In simplest terms, it was horrific.

"What happened here," Legolas muttered with grief in his heart.

His feet carried him closer to the limp body and he began to inspect it further. The being before him was female, but incredibly small for a grown elf. This lead him to assume that she had not lived many centuries—getting her life snatched away before she could make her impression upon the world. Her black hair—thickly lathered with blood—hung around her, shrouding her face and hiding whatever expression that was her last. The Prince could see some of the muscles and scars that stretched across her body, the rest were hidden by running blood. This indicated that she had been a warrior—a young one but one nonetheless. Despite her strength being showcased, she looked frail and broken—the beatings and torture taking its toll.

Legolas reached out and put his hand on the cheek of the young elleth. "What have they done to you, _Dilthen Er_ (little one)?" He paused, "Far too young to die."

The Prince closed his eyes and released a deep breath, silently wishing her to find peace in the after life.

His eyes snapped open.

_A heartbeat._

Legolas felt his soul fill with hope as he desperately moved his hand to her neck.

_A heartbeat, indeed._

"She's alive!" He hollered.

The other guards, who were scrutinizing the battlefield and gathering the weapons, turned their attention to him with frowns creasing their normally perfect expressions.

"She's alive!" Legolas called again.

Rowan ran over to his sector leader and touched the woman's wrist. He was surprised to feel the light pounding that flooded through her veins. Of course he did not think the Mirkwood Prince had been lying, he was just shocked that such a miracle could even be true.

"This is not possible," the amber haired ellon stated simply.

Legolas shook his head for it was possible— _clearly—_ for there was no other explanation.

Rowan took a sharp blade from his belt and easily cut the tight ropes that bound her. As the last rope fell from her form, her limp body collapsed into Legolas's waiting arms.

"I've got you, _Dilthen Er_ (little one)," he whispered.

Legolas hoisted her up so that her legs dangled over his arm and her head rested against his chest. His eyes glanced over her form as red begun to stain the fabric of his own clothing. Clenching is jaw, he moved some of the shredded material that cloaked her to reveal a deep laceration.

A low string of curse words tumbled from the Prince's lips before he turned to his warriors and spoke. "I need something to stop the bleeding— _now_. I can get her to the Mirkwood healers, but I do not have much time."

Another light haired elf named Belanor quickly brought Legolas's horse forward, along with a ripped piece of cloth.

Legolas frantically pressed the fabric against the wound upon her stomach as he passed the nearly dead elleth to Rowan. The two exchanged a quick glance as the amber haired elf took over the job. The fabric darkened and became wet, worrying Rowan, while Legolas took the reigns of his horse.

_She was loosing too much blood._

As Legolas mounted his steed he spoke calmly and clearly, "Belanor, take command. Finish the patrol towards the east end and make your way back to the gates."

The grey eyed second leaned in and spoke with a whisper, "But you will not arrive in time, Legolas. She won't be able to survive. Her wounds—"

The Prince brushed away his comment. "Finish off any orcs that escaped this massacre."

Rowan, who desired to be rid of the dying woman for it brought anxiety upon him, passed her to the Prince once more. Quickly she was settled against his chest with one of Legolas's hands pressed upon the most worrisome wound.

"Ride safe," Belanor called as the blonde elf nodded and took off into the dark forest.


	2. Chapter 2

Legolas rode his horse swiftly through the woods of Mirkwood, weaving and twisting between the trees and brush. He whisked past villages and lone stoney houses, ignoring the confused elves' questioning looks. Every couple of minutes the Prince would glance down at the young elven woman in his arms. He prayed to the Valar that he could make it to the healers quickly for he believed such a young creature deserved a chance at life.

The intricately designed gates opened immediately when the guards saw their Prince for his blonde locks and piercing blue eyes made him quite recognizable.

As Legolas's horse thundered to a stop he yelled out to the guards, "The healers! Get the healers! _NOW!_ "

The Prince dismounted his steed, which was difficult with the dying elf in his arms. However, he was sure to be careful to not move her in a way that would worsen her injuries.

Legolas looked down at her delicate face. _Please_ _let_ _there still be a chance at life for you, Dilthen Er_ (little one) _._

"Legolas!"

His head shot up immediately when he heard his father's voice filled with fear.

"Legolas, I was informed that you arrived screaming for the healers....." Thranduil let his sentence trail off as he noticed the broken body in his son's arms. "You are not injured?" He questioned.

Legolas looked up at his father's worried face, "No _Ada_ (father), worry not, I am alright."

Before another word could be spoken, the healers arrived and rushed to take the dying woman from their Prince. They were quick to lay her broken body on a stretcher and begin pressing more cloths upon her form to slow the bleeding.

Legolas felt a sudden feeling of reluctancy wash over his heart as they pulled her from his grasp. He desperately wanted to follow and be present as the healers worked. He was the one who discovered that she still had a chance at life and it was his duty to see to it that that chance did not slip away. He took steps to do so, but his father stopped him with a stern tone.

"Legolas."

The Prince of Mirkwood turned towards Thranduil, " _Ada_ (father), I must—"

"Legolas!" Thranduil hissed. He grabbed his son's arm and lowered his voice, "That is not your responsibility. You are the Prince of the Woodland Realm, not one with a duty of taking care of the ill." He paused, "You are covered in this stranger's blood. Change into fresh clothes, then we will discuss your actions."

Legolas looked at his father with furrowed brows, "My actions?"

Thranduil clenched his jaw, "Bringing this unknown individual into our lands."

He looked at his father in complete anger, "She is elven—she is our kin!"

The King did not respond so Legolas continued, his voice rising as he did so, "She is minutes from death—tortured by Orcs! Did you expect me to leave her to die?!" He paused, his tone changing to an astonished whisper, "She is one of us, _Ada_."

Thranduil glared at his son, "No. No, she is not."

Legolas's lips parted in shock.

_How could his father say such a thing?_   
_This elleth was fighting a war with death—desperate to live—and Thranduil did not care._   
_He did not care at all._

The Prince watched as his father walked back through the vast, embroidered, wooden doors—leaving his son behind with astonishment and regret.

_How could he be so harsh?_

........

Legolas strolled through the silent halls of Mirkwood. The familiar stone and wood that usually brought him a sense of peace could not settle his restless mind this time. His thoughts kept wandering as if he was exploring the secrets of the deep sea; but it was not the ocean that entrapped his mind, it was the elven woman.

He had tried numerous times to visit her, but the healers refused to divulge much detail. Apparently, the situation was too unstable and not one could enter—not even the prince. However, Halafarin, the head healer who had been healing Legolas since he was a young ellon, did disclose some information to quiet the Prince's inquires.

He stated that her injuries were quite extensive and for a while they were unsure if she would make it to see another sunrise. Legolas knew this to be true of course as he had been the one to find her body. If the Prince had to guess, he would say— _at the very least—_ she had a couple broken ribs and a considerable amount of bruising and lacerations—one of which was that deep slash across her torso. And if anything, it was that cut that would be her end.

Legolas was slightly irritated that he was not permitted to come and see the results himself, especially with his statues. Yet, he understood the intention of the healers. He just wished he could actively monitor the young elleth's symptoms. He normally would not be so persistent and—as Halafarin would say—a pain in the ass, but something within his soul drew him to her.

It was unknown to Legolas that he had wandered into the healing ward while his thoughts journeyed until his elvish ears picked up a loud fearful scream. This instantly brought him back to his senses.  
As instinct kicked in, he took off sprinting in the direction of the noise.

Legolas pushed open the doors of the place where he had been healed time after time, only to be completely shocked by the scene before him. The dark haired elleth that he had found upon the battle scene was holding a knife to a young healer's throat.

She laid her wild vibrant eyes on the intruder and he froze in his place. Her emerald orbs poured into his soul as if she could see all the hopes, desires, and fears that rested within him. They danced with a fierce aura, like burning moisture evaporating into nothingness. They were angry and feral, daring him to make the wrong move.

She then spoke with a tone full of intimidation and force, "Show me the path out and she will not be harmed. If you refuse, I kill her."

Legolas's lips parted at her words, yet he did not speak. He just stayed frozen, examining her body language.

She stood as still as a deer blending into its habitat. There was not a single quiver or shake in her hand, showing the blonde prince that she was definitely a warrior for none other would hold a grasp so steady. Although, as much as she held her position strong, he could tell she was in pain. Her body bent forward slightly and she favored her right leg. Moisture clung to her brow heavily, yet it was those eyes that conveyed the most to him. Even though they were raging and strong, they shifted back and forth—revealing her anxiety, panic, and uncertainness.

"My Prince," the healer whispered, "please—"

Legolas glanced at the healer and nodded in attempt to provide some sense of comfort for the poor girl's face was filled with fright.

He raised his hand and looked the unknown elf in the eyes, "You are not being held captive, _Mellon_ (friend). You need to heal, you have been through a battle and received wounds."

The woman gripped the knife tighter. "They are coming," She hissed out.

Legolas's dark brows pulled together for he had seen this in many. Her mind was lost at war and she was unaware of its dancing lies.

Her tone then became frantic as she spoke again, "They are coming! _Hain are tul_ (they are coming)"

Legolas spoke again, his voice gentle and comforting, "You are safe in Mirkwood, no harm may come to you here." He stepped closer to her and held out his hand, "Hand me the weapon."

Her jaw clenched and her grip tightened. "I must not be here....I....I have to—"

As if a new panic took hold, she stumbled backward—releasing the healer from her grasp in the process.

The young girl saw this opportunity and ran from the room, leaving the Prince to calm the unhinged patient.

"After all this time...." The elleth's voice trailed off quietly before picking up again, "I....I...."

A single tear streaked down her cheek as she stumbled once again. She slowly began to sink towards the ground like a ship lost at sea. Her hand rested on her stomach as dark red began to seep through the white fabric upon her.

Legolas knew what that meant: _the stitching had broken._

"Please, don't!" She held up her hand weakly in defense, "please," she whimpered quietly.

Her emerald eyes that held so much emotion rolled into the back of her head and she collapsed.


	3. Chapter 3

Legolas stood before his father who sat upon his throne. Silence and tension crept into the air—poisoning it with dread—for nothing passed between them except Thranduil's icy stare.

Legolas cleared his throat in attempt to interrupt the antagonizing quiet, which only pulled a frustrated sigh from the King.

Thranduil then spoke, harsh and stern, "We must discuss this newcomer you brought into our lands."

Legolas exhaled in annoyance. Any will he had had to restrain the force that would come from his lips dissipated instantly. "How do you know she is not of our lands? We have many Mirkwood elves living in the outskirts of our kingdom—"

Thranduil interrupted his son with a short biting retort, "In the _east_ end of the forest?! _I do not think so_."

The Prince sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, " _Ada_ —"

"I will tell you now, she is _not_ one of ours."

Of course Legolas knew that this was what was coming, but he really did not wish it so. He did not want to hear the harsh words and cruel ideology of his father for he knew that anger all too well—he did not desire to bear witness to it once more.

But contrary to Legolas's internal wishes, his father continued speaking, "I received reports of the scene from the members of your sector. Orc corpses burned and slaughtered, withered grounds and smoldering trees, and that half dead elleth tied tight with ropes."

The Prince of Mirkwood nodded in defeat for he knew his father would not change his stance. "Yes," he confirmed.

Thranduil stood up, "And tell me, who do you suppose burned and slaughtered those orcs?"

Legolas looked up at his father with a frown crossing his face. "I suppose...." But he let his sentence trail off into silence.

_Who did massacre the vile creatures?_

The blonde haired king walked down the winding and twisting steps of the wooden throne and stood directly before his son. He raised both his brows as he begun to circle the elf. "I see you do not have an answer to the present question."

Legolas's expression turned to one of a scowl. "There must have been a third party—someone else there."

"Perhaps." Thranduil turned around facing away from him, "Or not."

"What are you suggesting, _Ada_ (father)?"

"The individual you.... _saved_." He paused, "Sent from our enemies."

Legolas narrowed his eyes, "You must not mean a spy?"

The lack of response from his father answered the question.

The young ellon shook his head. "You dare say that she mutilated herself to gain our trust? What kind of person would suffer to that extent—to death?"

Thranduil let a snarky laugh thunder from his chest and leave his lips, "Do you underestimate loyalty?"

The Prince groaned, "Ada—"

The King shook his head, "They will do anything to gain access within our walls. Do not misread the forces of darkness, _Iôn Nin_ (my son)."

"What dark forces _Ada_ (father)? The spiders? The orcs? They do not have the intellect to recruit an elf for their devilry."

Thranduil did not make eye contact with his son for he knew his expression would betray him. It was not the orcs he feared, it was their will. A will that could only be mustered and rallied. Someone—or something—was gathering them, drawing them in. He prayed that these omens were not history repeating itself.

The King cleared his throat, suddenly realizing his silence. "Well, we shall see when she wakes.... _again_. And when she does, she shall be punished accordingly."

"Punished?!" Legolas questioned forcefully, "Punished for what crime?"

"She tried to kill one of our healers!" He barked.

"She was scared and confused!"

Thranduil scoffed. "Oh, and how do you know such a thing? Did she speak that thought to you?"

Legolas voice softened, "I could see it in her eyes."  
  


........  
  


Three days had passed since the two Mirkwood royals had exchanged harsh words about the injured elleth. And, quite frankly, Legolas was doing his best to avoid his father. Currently, he was distracting his mind with the stories and histories that were kept safe within the Mirkwood library.

The large room had dark wooden walls, creaking corridors, and spiraling staircases to upper levels—all lined with shelves of books. It had numerous nooks and crannies that one could get lost in, corners filled with comfy chairs and couches, soft fur blankets, and fluffy pillows. There was even an ever burning fire encased in stone which provided heat and light. The library was the perfect place to hide from particularly aggravating individuals that one did not wish to see—perfect with no interruptions.

Well, so Legolas thought.

The coveted quiet within the leather bound walls was ended by Belanor, a friend and member of his sector, calling his name.

The Prince sighed in frustrated defeat for it seemed that he could not get a moment to himself. Of course, he wasn't directly angry at Belanor. The incident with his father had just brought about an irked mood that didn't seem to have left yet.

"Over her, _Mellon_ (friend)," Legolas replied.

Belanor rushed to the crevice where Legolas had perched and instantly the Prince knew something was wrong.

"What is it?" He questioned.

"Your father—the girl—she is awake and he is bringing her before the throne."

Legolas slammed the book shut, "Why was I not informed immediately?"

Belanor shook his head. "I only now found out. It seems that your father is unhappy about you taking a liking to this elleth."

The blue eyed elf rolled his eyes and ground his teeth together. He placed the book on the small table beside him before standing up and hastily following his friend to the throne room.

When the two arrived, the recovering woman had not yet entered.

" _Ada_ (father), what is the meaning of this?"

Thranduil sighed for he was hoping his son would not get word of the soon to be encounter. "Legolas, we must know what happened in the forest with the orcs."

The Prince stepped forward with glaring eyes, "But Halafarin said she needed more time—"

Their conversation was abruptly cut short by the sound of the vast doors creaking open.

The attention of everyone in the room was immediately torn from the King and Prince's argument, for their curious eyes now rested upon the one who entered.

Accompanied by several elven armored guards, _she_ strolled in.

Instantly, Legolas's lips parted as if the breath that had run through them had been stolen. He wouldn't have recognized her if it wasn't for those piercing green eyes.

The battered elleth was wearing a simple dress dyed the color of dark winter berries—likely picked out by a maid. All the dirt and grim that had encaged her skin had been scrubbed off to reveal her features. Sharp they were, for her expression did not falter. Her jaw line was curved and acute, accentuating the bend of her cheekbones. The dark locks that sprouted from her head stayed loose like they were before, yet this time they were brushed into cascading satin. Her pink lips pulled tight and her dark brows called attention to those fierce emerald orbs. She emitted strength, power, confidence and poise—which was all the more impressive if one turned to observe her injuries. Bruises and cuts were scattered upon her body—her face, her arms, her neck, and likely more than that, for the elven wardrobe was modest. But it was still clear that she had just been in a fight—a fight for her life.

She stood upright before the King, but not a word leaving her lips.

"It is custom to bow before a King," Thranduil stated sternly.

Her jaw clenched and her gaze narrowed. "You are not _my_ King," She responded with a cutting tone.

Legolas's eyes widened at her boldness as he repressed a leering grin that tugged at his lips. The guards, on the other hand, shifted nervously for no one ever spoke to Thranduil that way.

The King's ever present stare flickered with rage given that he did not appreciate being disrespected.

"Watch your tongue," he retorted. "You don't want to end up in the dungeons, now do you?"

She did not reply with any statement.

"What is your name, _elf?_ " Thranduil demanded.

She did not speak.

"Your _NAME!"_ He unexpectantly hollered.

She smirked before simply stating, "Arryin."

It was clear that she was pressing and pushing the King—testing the waters and tugging at every string.

The King raised his eyebrows in annoyance as he reiterated another question, "Arryin of?"

She held her expression strong as if she was forcing back emotion, "I do not have a home. I am a ranger; I travel the lands of Arda."

"Where was your birth place?" Thranduil pushed further.

"I do not know," was the response that left her lips, but it was not the truth. _"_ My village was destroyed by orcs when I was young," She continued, yet that part was sincere.

Thranduiluncrossed his legs as his gaze lingered upon her. He was studying her—or at least trying to as were the rest of the elves.

After a moment, the King spoke again, "Well, _Arryin the Ranger_ , pray tell, what happened in my forest?"

She spoke with her features as firm as porcelain glass, "I don't remember."

"What about your attempt to kill one of my healers?"

A crossed expression danced upon her face at this statement. Slowly, she reached up to gently touch a cut upon her head, "My injuries must have taken my memory."

Thranduil nodded, seeming to accept her answer. The next words that left his mouth were a shock to all for never was Thranduil generous to the unknown. "You are permitted to stay in Mirkwood until your injuries fully heal and your memory returns."

Arryin's jaw tightened, "I would prefer to leave."

The blonde haired king raised his brows before a deep chuckled erupted from his chest. "You are to stay and how you do it is up to you—in the dungeons or in a room."

 _Now that sounded more like his father,_ the Elven Prince thought. _However, not entirely_. Legolas guessed that his father must have an underlying plan for his impression of the elleth seemed to have changed.

Thranduil had waited for a response from Arryin, but when she offered none he looked at the guards and spoke. "Show her to a room in the East Ward."

The guards started to usher her away but she stood firm in her place. "My weapons—where are they?"

The King looked down at her in question, "Your weapons?"

 _Clearly he had not read all of the report_ , Legolas thought.

The Prince stepped forward and spoke, "We collected multiple elven weapons from the battle."

Arryin tilted her head towards the one who had spoke. In the couple seconds that she had, she studied him. The elf was wearing a dark green tunic and worn-down, brown, leather boots—not attire of one who was on guard. Yet, the few weapons that were strapped to his body conveyed that he had skill. She instantly assumed he was off duty. Her first thought would have been that he was an advisor of some sort—if was not for that striking, long, blonde hair and vibrant blue eyes. The physical features upon him were similar to that of the King's.

_His son._

However, Arryin noticed that he did not have the same harsh and demanding aurora as his father. He seemed simpler—kinder.

The elf must have felt her piercing gaze for his attention encountered hers.

It was as if the deep churning of the sea and the fresh breaths of the sky met the moisture of leaves and the honey laden soil— _blue against green._

Arryin felt a shock run through her heart, electrifying the blood that ran through her veins; but it was gone as soon as it came.

His gaze left hers as his attention turned back to his father.

The King's voice echoed across the stone, interrupting the rush of thoughts that scrambled across Arryin's mind. "You shall have your weapons returned to you."

The strange elleth was then ushered from the throne room, leaving the sight of those gentle blue eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Arryin was quickly escorted through the winding woodland halls and into a spacious room with the door harshly slammed shut behind her.

For the first time since her arrival, she was left alone with the silence of her thoughts—and it was a _relief_.

Arryin had always been on her own, ever since the massacre of her people. Therefore, being around others was different and difficult—especially when they watched one's every move; which, of course, was particularly common among elves with their prying questions and peculiar stares. Hence why she preferred solitude. She always had. The Ranger spent most of her time secluded in the elements, earning coin by collecting bounties or stealing. But truthfully so, little did she care for the worries and concerns of others. She had her own to bare.

That thought of which brought up a rather sizable concern.

_She felt like utter horse shit._

The Mirkwood healers had done quite a good job of patching her up—better than her own skills of self-stitching. However, as any, their expertise was no immediate cure. The potions and mixtures they provided to lessen the pain were wearing off and their properties running thin. _Not a good sign._

Arryin released a heavy sigh as her thoughts drifted from her injuries to her surroundings.

Cold, grey stone stretched beneath her feet. It was met on all four sides by dark wooden walls that rose up to touch a dome shapped ceiling. Yet the complex swirl of the furnished timber was interrupted, for a vast archway lead into another room. This alcove consisted of a toilet, sink, and an oval shaped hole pressed into the ground. Although, it wasn't dirty or gross—it was large and coated in beautiful blue tiles that shimmered from the torch light. _Quite a fancy washroom,_ if you asked Arryin. A vast window was also set into the walls. It looked out over the sickly Mirkwood forest. Her gaze locked onto it for a moment, entranced by her thoughts, as the glass whispered for the Ranger to leap out into the freedom of the wilderness—indeed she felt quite caged within these elven walls.

Arryin shook her head and twisted away from the thoughts of escape and back to her inspection.

Centered upon one wall rested an elaborate bed. It had thick, wooden posts that were engraved with floral petals and swirling designs. The four pillars connected in an intricate manner overhead and a deep red canopy hung down upon each wooden pole. The mattress was rather high off the ground as it was level with Arryin's stomach, but then again she was abnormally small for an elf.

The dark haired woman walked towards the extravagant sleeping space and reached out to touch the soft, velvet fabric that covered the mattress. The cloth easily slipped between her fingers. " _High quality and expensive,"_ she muttered to herself.

Arryin let her hand trail down the bed to the fur blanket draped over the bottom half. It had been ages since she came in contact with such fancy materials. She was used to sleeping on rough soil with only her ebony-colored cloak, for all the money she earned was spent on weapons and food rather than frivolous things.

As she came out of her short contemplation, her gaze landed on an enormous mirror leaning against the wall perpendicular to the bed. It was delicately framed by the same swirling wooden pattern of the bed-frame and the reflective glass inside stared into her soul. She could barely recognize the woman that gazed back at her for she was clean and dressed for the elvish court. It was entirely different from—

A brisk knock sounded, interrupting her self-examination.

Arryin spun around, startled by the noise, for she was a warrior and such sounds normally indicated danger.

When the realization of her environment settled into her head once again, she closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. Arryin then moved to answer the knock. As the door swung open under her touch, a male elf with brown locks stood before her, an armful of weapons and various objects in his grasp.

"My lady," he paused. "My name is Edyrm. These are the belongings that were collected from the battle. I was sent to deliver them."

Arryin's green orbs danced with delight at the sight of her precious steel, leather bag, damaged armor, and— _surprisingly_ —worn-down boots. "I truly thought I wouldn't get them back," she muttered in amazement.

At the sound of her words, Edyrm tilted his head with curious confusion. "The King delivers on his promises," he reiterated.

Arryin rolled her eyes before speaking with a tone laced with sarcasm, "Right."

She could see the shock from her disrespectful manor edge across his elven features which lead her to believe that no one here ever really spoke their mind.

 _These people really need to get their heads out of their asses and get over their pretentious attitudes,_ she thought to herself.

The Ranger, seemingly remembering the elf in front of her, took the armful of weapons out of his grasp.

She forced her voice into politeness as she did not have time to bend to the suspiciousness of others. "Thank you for bringing these to me."

A warm smile crossed his lips, "Of course."

She turned around and kicked the door shut with her foot—making sure it slammed in Edyrm's face with a loud bang.

"Privileged elves," She grumbled under her breath.

Arryin dumped all her weapons onto the bed as her thoughts begged her to devise a plan of departure. As her brain worked, she sorted through her steel—fearful of missing weapons.

_One steel sword._   
_Two pairs of long silver knives._   
_Six throwing stars._   
_Three daggers....._

Her thoughts froze in panic for a moment and her hands desperately rummaged through the heap. Yet, the anxiety soon dissipated as her fingers curled around a blackened hilt.

_Four daggers._

Arryinheld the blade up and let her gaze hold onto it tightly. It was made of sharp boned crystal and solid obsidian. The strong curling material reflected the room's light as the afternoon's golden rays passed through it, allowing soft rainbows to edge onto the walls. It was rare and majestic. It was the weapon she had the longest— _the only thing she had from her home._ This elegant blade was the last physical remnant, besides her own being, from the ashes of battle and the dust of her kin.

The Ranger clenched her jaw. Her chest ached as she tried to push the painful memory out of her conscience for she did not have time to dwell on her regrets.

The female elleth ran a hand through her hair as she then examined the last of the weapons on her bed.

_And elvish bow and empty quiver._

A groan escaped her throat for that weapon was utterly useless without its other half—not that it was her favorite, but it was still valued.

Arryin supposed that the only option would be to purchase more arrows, along with parts to repair her damaged armor, during her journey. She knew a great blacksmith upon the edge of Gondor who would be willing to work on such a feat. The only downside was pricing and she was, _currently_ , broke.

The Ranger then snorted at her own stupidity. She _was_ in a kingdom of rich, snobby elves who most definitely have obtained plenty of jewels. _Surely, they wouldn't notice a couple missing here and there._

She moved to load her form with her steel, only for a frustrated frown to cross her elvish face. Arryin had almost forgotten the ridiculousness the maids had dressed her in. Dresses and gowns were entirely impractical—especially for a warrior. _How was one to kick the legs out from under an orc if one's legs were restricted?_ A complete absurdity, _clearly._

The Ranger's vision landed upon a cupboard tucked against the wall. She immediately made hast towards it, but halted as a ripping pain radiated through her abdomen. Letting a hiss rupture through her grinding teeth, she pressed a hand against it. _Once again, not a good sign._

Pushing past the agony, for she had other matters to deal with, she began scavenging through the drawers. As it was a guest room, not a lot did it hold. Few options were available—mainly green, green, and more green. _Not her color._ Sighing in defeat, she pulled out a forest shaded tunic and deep brown trousers.

Her quick strides led her over to the mirror and she slipped off the confining dress—only for shock to drip through her blood. This was the first time she had seen her body since the battle; _actually,_ the first time she had seen her body in a _very_ long time as the wilderness was a little short on mirrors.

Granted, Arryin had received her fair share of battle wounds, but nothing like _this._ Her limps were littered with rough bruises and jagged slashes. The harsher cuts were sewn together, yet the surface ones were left to heal on their own. However, that was not what stole her breath. It was her neck. The tanned skin was no longer a smooth color. Instead, it was shaded a blotching blue and purple pattern—the grasp of an orc.

Arryin's lips parted as she let her fingers trail over the markings for a moment, but the soreness and tenderness forced her to stop. As shocking as it was, that was not what would have been the cause of her death.

Her entire abdomen was wrapped in high-quality, thick, white gauss—binding her broken body back together. The freshness of the dressing was tainted with slight seeping red, hinting to a possible reopening of stitches. The Ranger moved her hands to her torso and slowly began to unwrap the fabric. Sure enough, there was a large laceration—leaking at the edges. It started at the top left side of her ribs, flowed down below her belly button, reached to the right side of her hip, and swirled upon her back.

Now _that's_ gonna leave a scar.

As carefully as she could, Arryin re-wrapped the gauss around her body, holding back a moan of pain.

She then clothed herself in the oversized tunic and loose trousers, letting her thoughts settle on her escape.

Arryin knew she would have to wait until dark to take her leave for the elves would be quite persistent if she tried to make a move now. Besides, her eyes were heavy and her body ached.

_Surely, a short nap wouldn't do any harm._

The small elf strolled to the large bed and ungracefully clambered upon it. She pulled back the covers and let the lavish comforts enfold around her.

**......**

_Arryin's fingertips released a sharp edged dagger and it expertly slammed into an orc's heart. The vile beast let out a blood curling scream of pain as it grasped at the weapon, but it was too late for the creature collapsed and pooled with black blood._

_She was in the sickly forest, surrounded by orcs—some dead, some alive. They kept coming at her, fight after fight. Yet she pushed on and on with her bones edged with exhaustion. Well, that is until she could do so no longer. Soon overpowered and tied to a tree, there was no escape in sight._

_An orc, likely the leader of the massive clan, inched closer and close to her—snarling and spitting. He held a large knife in his grasp and brought it against her face._

_"Pretty elfling," he grumbled, using the sharp object to lift the hair out of her face._

_She clenched her jaw and attempted to turn her head away from the stinking, vile breath, but she was the one bound—she could do nothing._

_He slowly trailed the rusting blade down her cheek and to her jaw. However, the lethargicness of his motion was instantly revoked as he reached forward rapidly and snickered. The orc sliced her skin, creating a sharp cut on her bicep. Arryin shut her eyes holding back a yell, not wanting to give him the satisfaction._

_The Ranger withstood this notion for hours as he continued to carve her skin apart, angry with the lack of feedback. Yet, one could only withstand so much. As the knife lashed across the soft skin of her stomach, she screamed out in pain—her voice raspy and throat scratchy._

_"The last light of the star," he said grinning. "We found you."_

_Her eyes fluttered shut as the pain encapsulated her senses. Her body, begging to slip into unconscious, didn't even stir as he sliced her leg._

_Clearly his confidence grew at her vocal expression for the orc then grabbed her by the neck, surprising her so._

_Arryin opened her wild eyes in utter alarm._

_"You will die," he hissed while squeezing harder and harder._

_Her throat began to close off. She couldn't breath and her vision blurred—the pain, the pain, the pain..._

_A soft wimped escaped her lips as she mustered up any energy she could to save herself._

_Her hands, tied above her, began to glow and heat._

_A light erupted and she screamed._   
  


_"Dilthen Er, Dilthen Er (little one)," a voice whispered._

Arryin sat up with wild eyes and unruly hair. Her fists grasped the smooth silk sheets in her hand—twisting, squirming, binding. She was coated in a cold sweat and panting—desperate to suck air into her lungs.

She closed her emerald orbs and focused on her senses as a means of calming herself.

_It is over now._   
_It is over._

The Ranger's opened her lids gently and let her gaze fall to the blood-colored blankets draped over her legs.

_It is over._

She let out a shaky breath and pulled the fabric back before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed—leaving her haunted memories behind.

Arryin glanced out the window at the coal-colored sky.

_It was time, for there was no reason for her to to be here longer than she needed to._

The Ranger slipped on her black leather boots and began digging in her bag. Thanking the Valar for her previous preparation, she quietly pulled out her extra sets of a weapons belt and weapons sling. It was guaranteed her other one was long gone, but that mattered not.

Arryin began to load her steel onto her form in preparation for escape. She fastened on the armor that could be salvaged and strapped on the various holsters and belts. She secured her first pair of elven knives on her back and her second pair into her boots. She latched her sword to her hip and packed her various knives, daggers, and throwing stars into the weapons belt and sling as she had done hundreds of times before. Lastly, she swung her empty quiver and (currently) useless bow over her shoulder and turned toward the door—ignoring the burning pain that stretched across her stomach.

As quietly as she could, Arryin pulled the creaking wooden door open and peeked into the hallway.

_Not a soul in sight._

Stepping out of the room, she was unsure of which way led to freedom. However, she had no choice other than picking a direction and hoping for the best. So she did so. The Ranger stealthily crept down ghostly corridor after ghostly corridor— _possibly_ snatching a small golden vase from a display and slipping it into her bag as she went.

The small elf was about to turn yet another corner when she heard a loud growl and an evil tone hiss, "Where is she, you idiot?!"

Arryin slammed her back against the wall, her emerald eyes wide with fear.

_Orcs._

Elves had been posted on the perimeter and throughout the whole of the Mirkwood territory—she was concerned that she would not be able to get _out_ , so how did they get _in_.

The Ranger clenched her jaw as she exhaled slowly.

_They want a fight, well they will sure as hell get one._

Arryin unsheathed her elven blades and rounded the corner.

Her blazing eyes met about a dozen beety black ones.

" _You!_ " One of the vile beasts growled.

There was a moment of silence and no movement as realization had not entirely hit their snail-sized brains, but alas, their complete utter lack of intelligence could only last for so long.

They all charged at her with a war cry.

The dark-chestnut haired elleth lifted her blades as the first orc reached her. She crossed the silver metal and sliced his throat in one clean sweep. Vile, rotting, black blood splattered all over her face, staining her skin, but she didn't care—she had a job to do.

Surely by this time, the sounds of battle would have woke the elvish beings that reside in the Mirkwood halls.

Arryin's blade clashed with a heavy rusting sword that was carried but an orc with a similar look—he was quite strong, but she was stronger. She overpowered him quickly and swung her arm with as much force as she could muster. His head rolled to the ground.

She lifted her angry green eyes up from the decapitated head to see icy blue one behind the cluster of orcs coming for her.

_The King's son._

Their locked gaze was almost immediately lost given that Arryin ducked to avoid an axe spinning towards at her head.

The weaponless orc ran straight for her, and she did exactly the same. When Arryin was seconds from colliding with him, she fell to her knees and slid right through its stubby legs. She instantaneously turned around to see the confused idiot's back. Quickly, she dragged her blades across his calfs and his howling form cluttered to the ground.

To her delight, the Ranger turned to see that the vile creatures had split into two sections when they _eventually_ noticed the blonde elf attacking from behind.

_The fight just became easier._

It was not long before the light haired elf drove his weapon into the last orc and the ugly beast fell to the stone floor, gasping for breath.

He knelt next to the orc and gripped the wretched cloth that covered its body.

"How did you gain entrance into this place?!" The elf questioned. His tone was stern and menacing, but that did not intimidate the orc for it laughed in response.

The Prince's jaw tensed and he unexpectedly slammed the orcs head against the ground.

"Why. Are. You. Here?" The blue-eyed elf hissed with seething anger pouring from his words.

Warm black liquid dripped out of the creature's mouth as his lips moved in a whisper. "The light," he raised his arm. "We came...for...the..." But the rest of his sentence was stolen from him by death.

" _TRAAKO_ (shit)," the blonde elf screamed in anger as he stood up—facing away from Arryin.

The Ranger's arms were crossed as a smirk tugged at the corner of her lip due to his profanity. Elves were supposed to be proper and formal—especially royal ones. _But maybe the son of the King has a personality that isn't as bland as lembas bread._

The Prince turned, after regaining his composure, to speak to the her. His voice was firm and emotionless, "You are a skilled fighter."

She nodded, "As are you."

He tilted his head slightly as his eyes raked over her attire. "You were leaving," he stated simply.

Before she could respond a booming voice echoed down the corridor. "Legolas!"

Arryin and the Prince immediately turned to see King Thranduil and six elven guards walking hastily towards them and the dozen orc corpses. However, she didn't care much for the King so she opted to let her thoughts drift.

 _Legolas,_ Arryin repeated to heralded _, a fitting name for the elf._

Being in such a close proximity to the Mirkwood Prince allowed her to be able to see his features clearly, even through the black blood that had been splattered upon him. Every dip, every curve, and every edge of his expression was accentuate by the moonlight; quite frankly, it gave him an ethereal glow. His jaw line was sharp and defined which was complimented by the rest of his structured and proportional face. His dark eyebrows different from his sun-colored hair, but it fit him well, as did his light colored lip.

Arryin would have been fine if she was left to analyze the elf more, but Thranduil and his prestigious attitude would not let her. 

"What is _this_?!" He demanded angrily.

The guards had stopped their advancement, but Thranduil walked through all the bloody, contorted, and withered bodies—right to the center where Arryin and his son stood.

Legolas made eye contact with his father withholding the same commanding look. "We managed to kill them all. The only thing I got out of one of them was that they were searching for light."

King Thranduil frowned, "Light? How peculiar."

The Ranger blamed adrenaline as her heart pounded to the anxiety that danced within her mind. _Surely, they wouldn't connect the dots, right?_

Prince Legolas shrugged, "I know not. The ramblings of the dying usually do not make sense."

Arryin's muscles relaxed at that statement for the two royals were ignorant to the meaning of the creature's words.

The King spoke harshly once again, "How did they get in?"

The Prince shook his head in response.

Thranduil breathed heat through his nostrils as his expression twisted into something darker and deeper. "I want reports of every single guard's movement tonight by first light and the patrols doubled. This will not go unpunished."

It was then, when a sudden movement caught Arryin's eyes. A worthless, half-dead beast inched up from his dirtless grave and swayed towards the Mirkwood King.

As swiftly as a fox, Arryin snatched a dagger from her belt and it wizzed past the King's ear into the center of the orc's forehead. It's axe clattered to the ground loudly while the evil creature thudded to the floor.

Legolas and Thranduil whipped their heads in complete utter shock for their senses had not picked up on the beast.

The King looked at her intently before speaking. "Arryin the Ranger," he mused. "You will be escorted to the throne room tomorrow. I have a proposition for you."

The small elleth's brows pulled together in confusion but she nodded respectfully—clearly her plans of escape were ruined and if the only way out of these haunted halls was diplomacy, then so be it.

Without another word, the Elven King turned on his heel and left her and the Prince alone in the corridor of corpses.

As the adrenaline within her dissipated, Arryin started to feel the wooziness of war. Her thoughts spun and searing pain ruptured through her body with no mercy. She staggered backwards, her previous composure fading rapidly. She leaned one hand on the wall and the other upon her stomach.

Legolas's orbs pooled with concern at her actions, "Lady Arryin, are you alright?"

She lowered her head to prevent him from seeing the pain in her expression and tried to mask the sound of distress in her voice. "Do not call me Lady—just Arryin. And I am _quite_ alright."

He reached out to gently touch her stomach, and to Arryin's surprise, she didn't have the energy to stop him.

Even though his touch was gentle, the small elleth could not hold in the tiny, barely-audible whimper. As quiet as it was, Legolas was no human; his elf hearing easily captured the sound. He pulled his hand away and he was not surprised to see the vibrant red that coated it.

"Your wound from the battle in the forest must have reopened," he stated simply.

She replied sharply for fear rose in her chest. "How do you know about that?"

"Besides being the King's son," He voice softened, "I was the one who found you and carried you to the healers, _Dilthen Er_ (little one)."

Arryin's lips parted at his words for she recognized them instantly.

Cautiously, Arryin lifted her head to study his ocean eyes, which, of course, were already observing her.

Legolas moved towards her and tentatively placed a hand on her hip. Arryin sucked in a deep breath for never had she been so close to another in this manner—especially a male. Every muscle, bone, and tendon within her body was screaming at her to lash out—to shove him away. Yet, against her nature, she allowed his hand to stay.

Legolas began to bend down slightly and he placed his other arm behind her knees.

"What—what are you doing?" She questioned with a tone laced with pain and unease.

"You need to be taken to the healers."

She growled and pushed him off—now defensive. "I can get there myself!"

He raised his brows and scoffed. "You are badly injured and you do not know the way." When she did not respond he sighed and continued speaking, "Let me at least guide you."

Her untamed gaze narrowed into a sharp glare as she questioned his intentions. Seemingly deeming him _partially_ trustworthy, she nodded to indicate her acceptance of the terms.

Legolas took her arm and draped it over his shoulder and he gently pressed his hand on her waist once again.

Arryin stifled a moan of pain as she spoke. "You said you would guide me. I don't need your support. I can do it myself."

" _Dilthen Er_ (little one), I know you are strong, you do not need to prove it to me."

Arryin clenched her jaw as heat crept up her neck and embarrassment flushed her cheeks. _Was the reoccurring nickname really a necessity?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry it took so long for me to get this chapter up. its been rough buddy.

The healers had re-stitched Arryin's wound, wrapped it in firm dressings, and gave her potions to take daily. She was told that within two weeks she would be healed enough to return to her regular activities—a valued perk of elven medicine.

Arryin now stood, before the light-haired king, in the intimidation of the throne room. But unlike her previous visit, there were no guards or officials witnessing the interaction. It was simply just the two of them. This matter caused the Ranger's thoughts to wind and curve—twisting like the troubles that always inhabited it so. _Never does anything good come from one-on-ones with Kings._

Thranduil stared down at her with a gaze as icy as the Caradhras peak. He crossed his legs and leaned back against the wood before addressing her bluntly, "You are a skilled warrior. I want you to join the Mirkwood guard."

Arryin raised her brows for he was rather quick to get to the point, yet she responded with the same tone. "Why? What is in it for you?"

"I gain a warrior," he stated simply.

The Ranger scoffed, "A warrior with unknown loyalty. Why would you want that?"

The King did not respond.

Arryin paused for a moment, letting her curious gaze examine Thranduil, before continuing once again as it was clear he was not going to answer. "Throughout my life, I have met many Kings of Arda and it is never as simple as what you claim. You must benefit in another way or you would not ask."

He smirked, "You are smart to perceive kings in a such a way.

"Well, living as I do, it is about survival."

Thranduil tilted his head, "Survival you say. If it is truly about survival, you will take me up on my offer."

Arryin clenched her jaw and sent him a glare, "And if I refuse?"

Thranduil stood up and began descending the stairs, "You, _Ranger_ , could have a home—safety, food, drink, warmth." He paused, "Or you could find comfort in the dungeons of Mirkwood."

She snorted before muttering under her breath, "typical."

Thranduil rolled his eyes for the comment did not escape his elvish ears.

Arryin stood still for a moment as she evaluated the options. She was always the one to lash out and fight, but in times like these—in arrangements like these—it wasn't about strength. It was about manipulation, deceit, trickery—a war of cunning wit. Of course, she was light on her feet and sneaky, but slipping out of steel bars is never an easy feat—even with such a skill set as herself. However, ducking away from a patrol group wouldn't be so difficult _._

The green eyed elleth ground her teeth and chose her words carefully, for Thranduil could not become aware of her scheme. "So I suppose, I have no choice in this matter?"

Thranduil smiled, "You do have a choice: life or death."

Arryin shook her head as a spiteful chuckle sounded from her chest. _Asshole_.

Her thoughts began to swirl once again. _What was the purpose of having a fickle warrior? Why did he care? Was it just such a pleasure to snatch up rangers who wandered into his woods? Or was it something else that implored him to do so? Could it be possible that Thranduil had an incline of knowledge into her past?_

Her thoughts froze at that specific notion, for if Thranduil knew of her abilities, she was in trouble; and quite frankly, so was he.

_Why else would he want her so?_

A clarity struck her as she came to a resolution.

_If the Elven King knew, he needed to die._

Therefore, she truly did have to stay, for anyone that was aware of her existence would need to be assassinated. _She was already in the kingdom so she might as well do it while she was here._

"Your answer?" Thranduil demanded, bringing out of her internal debate.

Arryin glared at him, "I chose life."

Thranduil smiled sinisterly and spoke with a deadpan tone, "Good. Someone will come to you with more information and instruction." He paused, "I understand from the healers you need at least two weeks to heal?"

The green eyed elf nodded in response.

"Very well. In two weeks you will start training with the sector you will be assigned to."

Arryin raised a brow. "Do I really need training?"

Thranduil sent her a glare, "It is one thing to know how to fight one your own. It is an entirely other thing to fight with others. Not that you, _Ranger_ , would know."

The elleth before him snarled in response, but his expression remained porcelain with no secrets revealed.

...

If Arryin was going to be assassinating the King, she would need to know this fortress inside and out—every crevice, every nook, and every cranny engraved into the maps of her mind. Therefore, she spent the next two weeks exploring the dark halls and shadowy corridors of the Mirkwood castle.

The Ranger had already come across a handful of secret passageways and hidden rooms. She memorized most of the guard's patterns and shifts as well. This allowed her to easily slip out the gates and explore the paths of the forest at night—planning the quickest escape.

However, reconnaissance was not the only thing she did within the Mirkwood walls. Never had she had access to such finery—knowledge, food, drink, decent shelter—for a long period of time. The library was filled with maps of middle earth and history accounts of the many different races. Here, Arryin allowed herself to pour over these archives for she suspected she would come across something useful for her travels. And, quite frankly, she enjoyed it. It was calming to feed her curiousness with comfort and stories—even if it was originally intended to help her upon her way. It reminded her of home, but alas those memories were now tainted.

Another thing the Ranger enjoyed immensely was the food. She had always been scavenging for scraps or paying for cheep meals at various inns. Therefore, being surrounded by the finest meats, cheeses, fruits, and breads wasn't a bad thing. Often Arryin found herself in the Mirkwood Kitchen snatching from cupboards and pantries alike.

Currently, in the late hours of the night, Arryin was doing just that. She had taken some sort of bread and began making a cup of tea.

The Ranger hadn't had tea in centuries; quite frankly, the last time she did was when her mother used to make it. But alas, those times were far too long ago and far to painful. Yet she could not resist the sweet smells of dried leaves, petals, barks, and herbs that sought to bring that familiar comfort to her heart. Being here, living in union with elves once more, reminded her of such times.....times before the ashes.

Arryin swallowed dryly, stopping her thoughts there for she couldn't bare to relive it... _again_.

The dark haired elleth folded her emotions away within her soul as her body thoughtlessly began to boil water over the ever-burning fire. She wrapped the dried small pieces into a tea cloth and tied it with a thin string—just as her mother had done. Arryin reached forward and, with a deep ladle, scooped the hot water into a ceramic mug. As the sweet smell of citrus and hibiscus enthralled her nose, she watched the color of the liquid alter—changing from light yellow, to orange, to pink.

A voice chuckled behind her and lighthearted words followed, "So you are the one diminishing the stash of herbs and dried leaves."

Arryin whipped around rather quickly as her trance was broken—her hand instinctively slipping to her knife strapped upon her thigh.

The Prince of Mirkwood eyed her cautiously before speaking again, "My apologies, I did not mean to startle you."

Arryin shrugged as her emerald eyes quickly flickered over his form. His blonde hair was not in the usual warrior braids, for it laid gently upon his shoulders and back. Furthermore, it was not scouting clothing that clad his body, instead only a simple light tunic and trousers. He looked relaxed and at ease for no weapons littered his form. He was not a threat..... _currently_.

Arryin turned back to the jar of honey as she answered his first statement. "Well, I haven't found the alcohol yet so tea will have to do."

A light laugh flowed from his lips as he moved next to her, reaching for another ceramic mug. "From what I understand you will be here for a while longer—I suppose that gives you time to find it."

She rolled her eyes, "I assume your father told you?"

"Yes, the sector you will be joining is mine." Legolas stated as he began the process of tying dried leaves into the tea cloth.

The elleth nodded in response before she picked up her hot mug of tea and piece of bread. She began to make her leave to her chambers but froze when Legolas called out to her.

"Arryin."

She turned her head to look at him.

"Tomorrow morning in the training fields—be there just after first light."

The she-elf nodded again and was about to depart once more when a thought struck her. "Did you ever find out how the orcs gained entrance here?"

Legolas seemed taken aback by the question but he responded after a moments pause. "Yes. My father has dealt with it."

"What was it?"

The Prince sighed, seemingly reluctant to tell her, "One of our warriors did not report for duty—leaving the South Gate unguarded.

Arryin rolled her eyes. "Let me guess, one of yours?"

The elf before her frowned, "Unfortunately and _Ada_ wasn't quiet happy about that. But I assure you, Edyrm has been reprimanded."

The Ranger's brows pulled together as uncertainty encapsulated her thoughts. Seemly speaking a string of consciousness, deep from her analyzing mind, more words tumbled from her lips. "How did they find their way through the sickly forest? Anything other than an elf would be misguided."

Legolas grimaced at her pondering notion for that question still lingered among his own concerns. The incident did indeed justify Thranduil's worries of a spy—likely why he assigned Arryin to be in _his_ son's sector. Yet she was asking questions that would reveal any spy. If she had the intention of deceiving them she would not say such things. Legolas opted not to speak his speculations for she was still unknown. Instead, "That is still unknown to us," he what he simply replied. After a pause, his tone changed to one of softness for he felt inclined to speak again. "But you _are_ safe here."

The Ranger chuckled and shook her head. She spoke with a tone full of annoyance and confusion, for she didn't understand why that seemed to be important for the elf to tell her. "You keep saying that."

Legolas tilted his head as his blue orbs pooled with perplexity. He was studying her. "You don't believe it so, do you?"

Arryin clenched her jaw and starred at him with a fierce angry look, for she knew the reality of the world. "No one is safe....ever."

....

Arryin sauntered onto the lush green training fields just as the cool morning rays began to fade into the heated ones of the afternoon sky. She stood still with crossed arms, letting herself examine the compound as she searched for ocean eyes and blonde hair. Yet her gaze first captured the various layers of motion in front of her. Perfectly crafted arrows flew from sharply carved bows, burrowing into the intended targets. Steel, modeled by the finest elven forges, clashed with immense force—echoing upon her ears. Various carefully placed punches and kicks pounded against each other as hand-to-hand combat was practiced by the elven warriors preparing for their next battle. This indeed was an army training for war.

Arryin's vision soon landed on Legolas. He stood, alongside an amber haired elf, at the front of a rather large crowd. It seemed that the two were demonstrating a sparing move. The elf, armed with a sword, came at Legolas swiftly; yet the the blow still missed the Prince for he shifted his center and rotated his form out of the way. As the other elf stumbled from the force of this motion, Legolas grasped his arm, throwing him even more off balance, and rammed his own elbow into the back of the elf. The two then reset to do it again, this time at a slower pace.

With her ever present scowl, Arryin observed this combat move. It was a move she had done herself many times to avoid bungling orcs. Simple and smart, yet pretty basic. Not to mention that the Prince was a rather good instructor. As the group paired off, Legolas examined each elven warrior. Although he was in a position of power, it seemed he treated each elf as an equal, for he genuinely wanted them to succeed. He gave tips and suggested mild changes in their movements to allow for a more graceful motion.

It was then when those blue eyes looked up from their teaching task, for he sensed another's gaze. His expression turned into a disappointed and annoyed scowl when Arryin's lip pulled into a smug smirk.

He made his way towards her, "You're late."

Arryin shrugged, "Guess it didn't escape your attention then."

Legolas's frown deepened, "Of course it did not." He paused, "And your reasoning?"

She snorted, "Because I didn't want to come."

The Prince gave her a stern look and sighed in irritation. Arryin responded with a satisfied grin, which only caused Legolas's brows to pull together more.

"This is the last time you are late. Come."

Arryin rolled her eyes at his rather unrelenting desire for rules, likely drilled into his mind by his father. Yet she followed him to the group of elves that he had been instructing. It took only seconds for them to notice the presence of a newcomer. Each one slowly stopped their practice and glanced at their sector leader with question.

Legolas cleared his throat before speaking loudly, "This is Arryin, she will be a member of the Mirkwood Guard."

The 13th sector gave skeptical glances at the small elleth, for they were wary of strangers. And she indeed was unknown to them, which was quite unusual considering their isolation due to King Thranduil's strict regime.

A raven haired she-elf, with a grimace on her face, spoke up, "She doesn't look like much. Where did you find her? On the outskirts of our furthest village?"

A couple snickers sounded from the group. And the woman continued with a snarl. "Does she even meet the requirements and skill level?"

Arryin's jaw tensed and a devilish smile formed on her lips as she drew her long silver knives. "You want to find out?"

Before Legolas could even try to get a word in, the other woman pulled her sword from her scabbard and leaped at the Ranger.

Arryin easily side stepped her blade and turned to lift her knife against the next oncoming swing. With strength that was not known to be there by the others, until now that is, she forced the woman back with a harsh kick to the stomach. The Ranger paused for a moment, giving the woman a moment to recover, before sending a taunting grin in her direction.

"Razela. That is enough." Legolas called out sternly, but the woman didn't listen.

She growled in frustration and lunged at Arryin once again. Yet the Ranger was quick, and she slid between Razela's legs. Arryin latched her feet onto her opponent's ankles and twisted her own body—bringing the dark haired warrior to the ground with a loud thud. Within seconds, Arryin was straddling Razela and held a blade to her throat.

The Ranger leaned in and spoke in a whisper, "First lesson of combat: don't underestimate your opponent, _otuuk fèsagin xhan_ (warg kissing bitch).

The observing elves, including Legolas, stood with parted lips and frozen expressions for shock stole their words. No one dared to speak such threatening profanities—especially to Razela, for she was one of their best warriors with an unyielding personality.

The Ranger turned to the elves, stood up, and crossed her arms. "Anyone else want to question my ability to fight?"

No one spoke.

The green eyed elf sheathed her weapons, "Very well." She looked at Legolas, "then let the training begin."


End file.
